


Manifestation

by ellerkay



Series: Sympathetic Response [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellerkay/pseuds/ellerkay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of an AU series where Will Graham is a mutant with extraordinary empathy and visions. In this story, he's thirteen and his powers manifest for the first time, when he sees a child get hit by a car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manifestation

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: This involves the accidental death of a child, which is not described in detail or graphically (maybe one line is slightly graphic, but that's it). But it is in there, and the feelings of the people affected are touched on in greater detail. There are also a couple instances of vomiting - again, not described in detail, but there.

Will was walking home from school, as slowly as he could. He knew he should pick up the pace; he had plenty of homework to get done, and books he wanted to read once he was through. But he also knew the apartment would be empty. Dad wouldn’t be home from work for hours. Not that things felt much less lonely when his father was there, but at least there was somebody else in the house.  
  
It wasn’t as though school was so much better. He was the new kid; perpetually the new kid, and he didn’t have friends. A couple people with whom he was _friendly_ , maybe – other quiet, bookish, awkward types. None of them, including Will, were much good at starting or maintaining a conversation. But it was something. And he could observe the other students, from the corner of his eye. He liked imagining their lives, embroidering the stories with little things gleaned from observed details, like the book they were reading, or a band patch on a bookbag. At home, it was just him and the long, quiet hours.  
  
For the millionth time, Will wished Dad would let him get a dog. A dog would be someone to talk to, a reason to get out of the house, maybe even a way to make a friend. Most people lit up at the sight of a dog. It would be something to talk about with them. Barring that, the dog itself would be his friend. Animals seemed to like him.  
  
But who, Dad asked, would look after a dog when he was at work and Will was at school? They couldn’t afford a dog sitter. Couldn’t really afford a dog, probably. Will would have taken a cat, but his father was allergic, and Will thought he would have said no even if he wasn’t.  
  
A few years ago, Will had had a fish. But a fish wasn’t much company. It had died after a year, although Will had cared for it faithfully. Maybe it had just been the end of its captive lifespan. Will was sorry, but not too sad. They had never really bonded. It wasn’t the same when the pet wasn’t a mammal, Will suspected.  
  
Will was halfway down a block not far from where he lived when he saw a blonde child, around four years old, come bounding into the street at the corner, chasing a runaway ball. It all happened so fast – a car came squealing around the corner – Will raised his hand and shouted – but it was too late. There was a thump, and the child lay still.  
  
Will stood frozen, staring at the spreading pool of blood, trying to look away and finding himself utterly unable. A woman – the mother, Will knew at once – came running out of the house, her face a mask of panic. Will’s heart was racing; he could feel her terror, which quickly turned to grief when she reached the child. Will felt like it was him, finding his own child. He felt like he was drowning. He gasped for air and wrenched his gaze away from the horrible tableau.  
  
His eyes fell on the driver of the vehicle. The man had stopped and gotten out of the car; he’d tried to speak to the woman, who was sobbing now (Will pressed his hands to his ears, but it did nothing to block out the pain). The driver had stumbled to the side of the road and collapsed on the curb, face white and shaken, and when Will looked at him he could feel his confusion, his denial, the crushing guilt which threatened to overwhelm him, the dryness of his mouth, the liquor he could smell on his own breath when he buried his head in his hands – _What? How?_ Will’s mind demanded of him. It was hard to think, but yes, the signs were there: the staggering walk, the red eyes, his unshaven cheek and unkempt appearance. Will began to worry… _What will they do to me in prison? – No, him, not me, **him**!_  
  
Sirens were approaching in the distance. Someone had called the police. Will shook himself, blinking rapidly. Without warning, he found he was throwing up into the street. When he was done, he didn’t feel better, like he did sometimes after vomiting. He felt sick and shaken, and his knees wobbled.  
  
He didn’t look at the accident again, but turned and started trudging away. He knew he should stay, talk to the police. He was a witness, they might need to hear from him…But he was thinking about the child’s father now. No one else had come out of the house; he was at work, perhaps. He’d be blonde, like the child (the mother had very dark hair), and soon, now, he would get a phone call, and the grief and pain hit Will like a ton of bricks, just the way it would hit the child’s father. Will started running, blood pounding in his ears, as he tried to get as far away as he could.  
  
He only made in a few blocks before he stopped, suddenly, stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone behind him exhaled impatiently as they walked around him, but Will ignored them. He took a few deep, shuddering breaths, and with a massive effort of will, he quieted his mind, refusing to engage with the feelings and images that threatened to overwhelm him. He turned, and walked back to the scene of the accident.  
  
Will found a police officer, and told him what he had seen. The officer wrote his story down, and took his name and address, in case they had any further questions.  
  
“You all right, kid?” he asked when they were done, clapping a hand to Will’s shoulder. Will suppressed the urge to flinch. “Hell of a thing to see.”  
  
His voice was sad, but not shocked, and when Will glanced up into his eyes, he saw the years of gruesome crime and human pettiness, felt the officer’s tiredness, saw him smoking the cigarettes Will could smell for just a moment’s peace and relaxation. Saw how often even those were interrupted, and his guilt, knowing that they hurt his fitness and therefore his ability to do his job and might kill him someday, leaving his wife a widow. ( _Wedding ring, you saw his ring,_ he assured himself.) That is, if he didn’t get killed in the line of duty, first.  
  
The officer was looking at him with a concerned expression. “I’ll be okay,” Will managed to choke out.  
  
“Someone coming to pick you up?”  
  
“I live just four blocks away,” Will said. “My dad will be home in a couple hours.”  
  
The officer nodded, looking a little dubious, but another office called his name, and he nodded at them.  
  
“Thanks for coming back, kid,” he said. “You helped us out.”  
  
Will nodded and walked away quickly.  
  
The short trip home seemed interminable, and by the time he reached his apartment, Will was shaking so hard he could barely get the door unlocked. He ran straight into the bathroom and spent twenty minutes dry-heaving over the toilet. Then he crawled into bed and collapsed, sobbing. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed about the child’s parents and the driver of the car, some of the scenes startlingly clear and logical. His dad woke him up for dinner, but Will didn’t have any appetite.  
  
Dad watched him pick at his food. “You sick?” he asked.  
  
“Maybe,” Will mumbled.  
  
“Well, go back to bed. I’ll call you out tomorrow if you need to stay home.”  
  
Will nodded and left the table, grateful. His father wasn’t great at connecting with people, either. Will knew that, and he didn’t blame Dad for it. And sometimes, like now, he seemed like he understood.  
  
Lying in bed, he stared up at the ceiling, watching the light from passing cars move over it. He tried not to dwell on the pain he’d felt, but he thought it would never entirely leave him. He wished that he lived in a world where terrible things didn’t happen, but he knew wishing would do no good.  
  
He thought about the police officer’s words to him. He didn’t put much stock in them. The officer had seen Will was upset and was trying to be nice. It was obvious what had happened; they didn’t really need a corroborating witness. Still…it was good to remember that one _could_ help, sometimes.  
  
Will thought, as he drifted off into a restless and uneasy sleep, that he would like to help make the world a less terrible place.


End file.
